Up till then
by sarakirai
Summary: All he knows is that this started at sixteen as simple black and white then slowly bloomed into full colour over the years that followed, the most beautiful flower that he's ever been able to picture – one he doesn't think he'll ever be able to draw. (In which Mikoshiba dwells on the evolution of his relationship with Sakura)


Up till then there'd only been

A sort of bargaining,

A wrangle for a ring,

A shame that started at sixteen

And spread to everything.

**_Philip Larkin – Annus Mirabilis (High Windows, 1974)_**

Sometimes, Mikoshiba Mikoto doesn't know how to face Sakura Chiyo.

He isn't even sure what sort of relationship exists between them, because it seems to defy ordinary labels. If he had to, he'd say the closest way would be to describe it as a negotiable sort of more-than-friends thing. All he knows is that this started at sixteen as simple black and white then slowly bloomed into full colour over the years that followed, the most beautiful flower that he's ever been able to picture – one he doesn't think he'll ever be able to draw.

It's a wonder that the whole bunch of them from high school are still in touch, still held together by the web Nozaki's manga has spun across their lives, though they can't afford to stop by his flat to help out as often as before. In any case, Nozaki and Miyako are still holding down the manga artist job and doing some part time work every now and then to supplement their income, or when they feel like they need to get their asses out of their apartments before they become total shut-ins under deadline pressure.

Meanwhile, Kashima is having a whale of a time with her acting career, and Hori has made a name himself as both prop-maker and acting coach in the industry by now. They're going to set up a theatrical school soon, he hears, and isn't that great? Seo has been roped in as vocal trainer too, and according to the rumours flying around, her contract contains the fine print stipulation that Kashima is banned from singing whenever in her presence. It's probably true. Kashima may be his best friend, but even the strength of Mikoshiba's love can't withstand the onslaught that is her idea of _singing_.

Wakamatsu has a newly secured job as an elementary school teacher, Sakura is a graphic designer. And lastly there's him, holding down an office job. One of those boring, typical professions held by millions of other fresh Japanese graduates, but it's something he can do and he's glad for that, because while drawing flowers on commissioned wedding cards and picture books doesn't pay that badly, it isn't a stable day job.

Besides, they bring _her_ to mind too much, and Mikoshiba has long since decided that thinking of someone more than they think of you can't be good.

/

Loving Sakura is an unprecedented development, born from the ten years they've spent side by side as Nozaki's lackeys, weathering all sorts of shit together. Back then, his time was mostly split between trying to stay by Kashima's side – because he was a socially awkward looker who didn't really have a clue how to function without the support of his best friend – and sitting in Nozaki's apartment, bent studiously over the manuscript on the table, or playing galge, or helping Nozaki do a test drive of some stupid scenario. It was pretty obvious, right from the start, that their favourite beribboned shrimp had it hard for Nozaki, for some unknown reason – it really doesn't make sense why she claims to like someone she thinks of as supremely obnoxious, someone who doesn't pay the least bit of romantic attention to anything but his manga characters, and who, no matter how hard Mikoshiba looks, doesn't appear to have any charm points at all besides his height and figure.

Still, watching Sakura's feelings as they mature and morph gradually into different sorts of sentiments is rewarding in itself. The initial paralysing crush that borders on obsession kind of weakens after a while, and changes into a quieter but just as steady emotion, the sort where admiration and hope are combined, and there are no more elaborate schemes to excite Nozaki's interest; rather, when the things she does do catch his eye, they are silently noted and filed away. With the passing of another year, the feelings shift some more, into a comfortable attachment with only the occasional deep blush that surfaces (but Mikoshiba feels sure that Nozaki was never the only guy she would blush for), and eventually it settles into what it is now, gentle affection and fond smiles resigned to being unrequited.

Mikoshiba's matured, too. It used to be that the only girls he could interact normally and coherently with were those of the two-dimensional sort, but he can actually hold up his end of a decent conversation with a living, breathing female nowadays. Practice makes perfect, or near-perfect, and he's now rather adept at holding back from blurting out words and phrases that he'll instantly regret, complete with bishie sparkles and a rain of flower petals.

No more tragically embarrassing episodes for him in the middle of ordinary conversations, oh no. He saves those moments for the Friday night work parties where everyone gets drunk as a skunk and can imagine that he is, too, where all the faces around his are equally red and then it doesn't seem to matter as much; even though he is, in fact, sober. It's just one of the many survival tips he picked up from the sensible members of their gang – who basically comprise just Sakura and Hori-senpai, because the rest are total idiots like him, even Wakamatsu – someone who intends to guide his life by the riverbank of shoujo manga doesn't count as someone with _sense_.

/

He's 25 now, an adult in his own right, but this doesn't feel right, because aren't adults supposed to have all the answers? Mikoshiba doesn't.

The time he spends sitting down to draw flowers is the time he spends on introspection, and lately when he looks inside his thoughts Sakura is always there. He haggles with himself like a housewife at the marketplace, trying to discount the truth of her presence in his innermost thoughts. He can't help but grimace briefly when he recalls how the _watching-her-watch-Nozaki_ became _watching-himself-watch-her, _and he started to think things like _Sakura has a lovely side profile_ or_ she'd look great with this flower in her hair _these past five years. Still, the more he bargains with himself, the more those thoughts of her stay and are summoned unbidden at the most inopportune moments; and his face will soften with the warmth of nostalgia and tender appreciation of her friendship, the hope of there one day being, perhaps, something more.

Up till then there'd only been a sort of bargaining, where between them they'd do barter trade with little favours and thank you coffees and genuine smiles. Mikoshiba and Sakura, he'd started to think. Mikoto and Chiyo. They would be good together, wouldn't they? He'd wanted to be able to up the ante, to show her that her sweet dork of a male best friend could be that something more they all looked for (unconsciously); wanted to show her that the smile he sets aside for her is special; that his face lights up in a way that's only possible when she enters a room. The orange of her hair warms his heart and the coral of her lips warms his face, the red tint of her cheeks when she laughs matches his hair perfectly.

Mikoshiba keeps those thoughts to himself, but they leak out in drips and drops, spreading slowly like a stain on his person, shading his expressions and actions. And one day Sakura notices the colours that rise when she's around him.

/

Which is good, because going in circles for ten years has made him dizzy, and now he can fall into her arms ungracefully and not have her casually laugh it off and flick his forehead – he gets to crack open his eyes and watch the corners of her mouth pull up; crinkle his face happily when she ruffles his hair. He's dimly aware of Nozaki getting the camera out and Miyako starting to babble about cats as she sketches furiously, but he ignores them and props himself up on his elbows, pushing his face nearer to those violet eyes.

"How about it?" he whispers, and she raises one expressive brow on an otherwise blank slate.

She studies him seriously, then, as he smiles goofily up at her and starts to flush (slowly, but surely), then chuckles and shrugs him off her ankles.

"We'll see," is the non-committal reply he gets, but the sidelong glance Sakura shoots his way for the rest of the evening is enough to imbue him with tolerable hope that there won't have to be any awkward wrangling between them.

But wasn't love always about awkward wrangling? Mikoshiba would be more than happy to engage in a spot of it, as long as they get the good route in the end – unlocking a secret route in the process would be an added bonus. So he does. And it pays off handsomely, because this year when they can finally get round to exchanging birthday presents, they won't just be birthday presents, won't just be Valentine's day presents and White day presents. It'll be about her real answer to his question, and everything else he thinks he can promise her, even if he doesn't need to; he wants to show her everything they'd missed out on up till then, and why they didn't need to spend any more time missing out.

He'll wait for her homemade sweets on February 14th, and work on his own carefully crafted response until the week after White day.

A shock of red hair bends low over the table, fingers gripping the tiny brush close as they dance over the ribbon in carefully choreographed steps. Delicate flowers bloom on the solid background hues of silk and linen, yet another bouquet that joins the others in pride of place on his desk – next to the framed snapshot of two smiling redheads taken at their high school graduation.

Right now, Mikoshiba can't wait to see Sakura again.


End file.
